World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 4

“Patron?”

Both Chief Inspector Gamache and Agent Beauvoir turned to look at Inspector Chernin.

A man, a stranger, had joined her by the woman’s body, still half in, half out of the lake. He was looking a little lost, very cold, and a lot unhappy.

The coroner, Gamache guessed. Called up from the nearest large town.

The Chief Inspector let go of Beauvoir’s arm, and the young agent suddenly felt set free, but also adrift. For the first time he realized how close “free” and “lost” were.

Gamache brushed by him, then turned. “Coming?”

“Oui, oui” was all Beauvoir could manage as he stumbled along the shore, losing his footing now and then on the wet rocks.

“And no more talking, right? You’ve probably said enough.”

“It’s murder,” Agent Beauvoir called after him. “She was murdered.”

Gamache stopped and turned. “You don’t take orders well, do you.”

“You need to know. It wasn’t suicide or an accident. The wound. Look at the shape. Look at what’s stuck in its”—at a scowl from Gamache, he adjusted—“her skull. It, she … her, it…” He was completely confused now about what he should say. Pointing to his own head, he said, “It wasn’t crushed by a rock or stone in the lake.”

“Then what, in your opinion, did it?”

“It’s not an opinion. I know. She was killed by a brick. Someone hit her with a brick and threw her into the lake.”

Gamache stared at Beauvoir, then walked away to join Chernin and the coroner.

After introducing himself, Gamache said, “Tell me what you know.”

“I know she’s dead,” said Dr. Mignon. “I have to get her onto my examining table before telling you more.”

It was maddening, though not unexpected. Chief Inspector Gamache knew that most local doctors, designated as coroners, had only accepted the position because it came with much-needed extra money and absolutely no responsibility.

Most deaths were not at all suspicious. There were some hunting accidents. Some suicides. Car accidents. All tragic. But not homicide.

A country coroner in Québec could, and most would, go through their entire career without meeting a murder victim.

But this poor man just had. Fortunately, he was also conscientious enough not to pretend to know more than he did.

Dr. Mignon looked down at the body, then at his shoes, soaked through and caked in muck. Then, as a loon called, he gazed out at the misty lake.

“A terrible place to die,” he said. “I’m guessing she’s the missing woman. Heard about it on the news.” His eyes returned to her body. “Her poor kids.”

The woman’s eyes were still open, her right arm lifting and dropping with the movement of the waves. Languid. Graceful, even. As though waving hello, or goodbye.

Like “free” and “lost,” it was often difficult to tell the difference.

After doing a slightly more thorough exam, the doctor stood back up and removed his gloves.

“A catastrophic wound on the side of her head. No other obvious injuries. I’ll need to look closer. See if there’s water in her lungs.”

If there was, she went in alive, and it might have been an accident or a suicide. If not, then she went in dead, and it was definitely murder.

While Gamache already knew the answer to that question, he would see what the coroner concluded.

“Merci” was all he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Beauvoir practically vibrating with the effort not to shout out his opinion. To his credit, he remained silent, if not still.

Gamache nodded to Inspector Chernin. They could move the body now.

As his agents pulled her out of the cold water, Gamache walked Dr. Mignon to his mud-spattered vehicle and gave him some guidance on what to look for in the autopsy. The coroner listened, then thanked the Chief Inspector.

“Who’s going to break it to the children?”

“We need to confirm her identity first, but once we do, I’ll tell them.”

The coroner put out his hand. “Better you than me. I’ll be at the hospital, waiting for the body.”

From the shore, Agent Beauvoir watched the two men talk, then turned to Inspector Chernin, who was kneeling beside the corpse and going through her pockets.

“The coroner doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“And you do?” she said, not looking at him.

“I know enough to recognize murder. I told Gamache, but I don’t think he was listening. Here, let me show you.”

He knelt opposite her and reached out, but Chernin stopped him. “Don’t touch.”

“Then give me gloves.”

“You’re getting nothing. Step back before you contaminate the scene.”

“Hey, look, this was a murder,” he said, taking a few steps away. “I told Gamache to look closer at the wound.”

“For this?” Inspector Chernin held up a small evidence bag. In it were tiny chunks of red. Almost as red as Agent Beauvoir’s face became. “We saw it right away.”

“Then what was that talk about accident or suicide?”

“Just examining every possibility. But yes, before he took you aside, the Chief Inspector and I conferred about the shape of the wound, the sharp indent, and the red material embedded in her skull. Almost certainly a brick.” She looked around at the lake. “Where would someone get a brick out here?”

When Beauvoir opened his mouth, she held up her hand. “It was a rhetorical question, Agent Beauvoir. Thank you for your help. I’m sure the Chief was grateful.”

She watched as he seethed, his brilliance having gone unrecognized and unrewarded. With, perhaps, the dawning suspicion that in this company he might not actually be the brightest light. It was a new and unpleasant thought for Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

The Inspector smiled. She’d been this young agent once, a lifetime ago. Linda Chernin almost envied him his ignorance. He had no idea what he was in for.

“Inspector?” one of the agents called. He was walking along the shore in waders and holding an evidence bag.

In it was a sodden purse.

“Well done,” said Chernin.

Opening the purse, she brought out a wallet. It was wet and worn but had been pretty once. A rose, needlepointed onto it, was now scuffed and dirty, and threads had been pulled loose.

There was no money in it, but there was ID.

Gamache returned from seeing the coroner off and joined them, motioning Beauvoir to step into the scrum.

“It’s her. The missing woman.” Chernin handed the plasticized driver’s license to Gamache.

Clotilde Arsenault stared out at them. Her hair was blond. Straggly and stringy. It looked unwashed and uncombed. Unkempt.

Her cheeks were sunken. Her blue eyes were glassy. She stared at the lens as though trying to figure out what it was.

Her face was thin, almost emaciated, and her complexion sallow. The photograph more resembled one of the thousands of mug shots Gamache and Chernin had seen in their careers than a driver’s license photo.

Gamache looked at the woman on the rocky shore. Then back to the picture.

In life Clotilde Arsenault had looked eerily as she did in death. She lived, it seemed, at the place where the river Styx narrowed. It had not been a long journey for the ferryman.

The woman in the picture was only thirty-six, but life had not been easy, or kind. And neither had death.

There was one other photograph in her wallet, in the sleeve where the money would have been. It too was plasticized. A studio portrait of a girl and boy. Sister and brother, he assumed. Clotilde’s children. The boy, striking in his good looks, was smiling. The girl wore a school uniform and her hair was in pigtails. Looking closer, Gamache realized she was young, but not the little girl she appeared to be in the picture.

His brows drew together and he took a deep breath. “Have it checked for prints,” he said. “When you’re done, return it to me, please.”

“Yessir,” said the agent.

Gamache looked over at one of the Sûreté vehicles. When they’d arrived, he’d noticed a man and woman sitting in the back seat. Watching them.

“Those the two who found her?” he asked.

“Oui,” said Chernin. “Hikers. Not from around here. They’re up from Montréal.”

“Hikers?” said Gamache. “Out here? Today?”

He already had that information. It was in the short report the captain had given him. But seeing this lake, these surroundings, raised all sorts of questions. Ones he would ask in time. But first—

Kneeling once more beside the body, Armand did something the coroner had not thought to do. He pushed up Clotilde Arsenault’s sleeve to reveal the tracks. Then he looked down the length of her body. Her shoes were missing, having probably come off in the water, but her jeans were still on. The movement of the waves hadn’t tugged them off. And her killers hadn’t ripped them off. But that didn’t mean there’d been no sexual assault.

He’d advised the coroner to take copious DNA samples and do a toxicology report, full spectrum. And to look for semen. To check for hairs. Tissue under nails. Foreign biological material everywhere, including her mouth.

There was bruising on her face. It was either immediately premortem, or very soon after her death.

And there were more bruises on her arms. Older ones. Previous assaults.

He pondered, staring down at her.

What had happened here? Why was Clotilde Arsenault dead? In a life clearly filled with violence, with pain, what had happened to take that next, that last, irrevocable step?

Why had someone found it necessary to kill her? Was it an accident? Had someone, addled by drugs, picked up the nearest object, a brick, and swung? Not intending to kill, but killing?

Or was it intentional? For the money? Her drugs? None were found on her, so perhaps they too were stolen.

But the big question, beyond who did this, was why had the killer brought her here? To this lake? Why not just leave her where she fell? Or, if he wanted to get rid of her body, why not leave her in the forest for the wolves and bears to find?

His eyes moved back to Madame Arsenault’s face. Inspector Chernin had tried to close her eyes, but they’d been open too long. The lids would not move.

There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

“Tell me your secret,” he whispered again. This time there was no snort of laughter from young Agent Beauvoir. Only silence and the lapping of the waves. “Who did this to you?”

He waited, but nothing happened. He’d have been shocked if it had. Her eyes remained fixed on his, as though she were trying.

One thing seemed clear to the Chief Inspector. Clotilde Arsenault’s last feeling wasn’t fear or shock. It was worry. And that worried the head of homicide. It was an unusual expression for a murder victim. Surprise was what he normally saw. Sometimes anger, often terror.

But not this. Though he also suspected that Madame Arsenault had spent most of her life worried. Getting back to his feet, he turned to Chernin, who was going through the purse.

“A chocolate bar. Some wet Kleenex. What looks like house keys. No car keys. No phone.”

“The report says it was left behind in her home. Her children found it, but don’t know her password.”

“A pair of dark glasses. Cheap. From a drugstore. Aaaaand … ahhhh.” She called to a Scene of Crime officer. “I need this photographed.”

He clicked a few shots of the inside of the cheap imitation-leather handbag while the others craned to see. When he finished, Inspector Chernin pulled the lining away.

Shoved down behind the lining was a small packet of white powder.

Chernin held it up. Gamache raised his head, looking up into the clouds. Thinking.

That answered a question that didn’t actually need answering. She was an addict. But was she also a trafficker? He doubted it. She might have been once, but she appeared much too far gone now.

She was just a user. Whoever did this must’ve known she’d probably have drugs on her. And yet, they’d taken the money and left the not-very-well-hidden heroin. He sighed.

Very little of this made sense.

Why bring her here?

Why take the money but not the smack?

One thing Gamache did know was that people stole what they needed. What they wanted. What would be useful. In this case, the money.

But they hadn’t bothered about the drugs. Because. Because.

Because drugs were not what they wanted or needed. Which meant she probably wasn’t killed by her supplier. Or another addict.

So who…?

Gamache looked over at the hikers. “What do they say?”

“Just that they were out for a walk and came across her body,” said Chernin.

Gamache turned to Agent Beauvoir. “What do you think?”

“Me?”

“Yes. Your thoughts.”

Beauvoir took a breath, and actually thought. It was, he realized, the first time he’d really stopped to consider something since he’d arrived at the detachment. It was also, he realized, the first time he’d been asked to.

He glanced over at Inspector Chernin, expecting her to be surprised or even annoyed that the Chief had consulted him. But she was just watching him too, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Nobody comes out here for a stroll. I think they were up to something. Poaching probably. Fishing illegally. This lake is known for trout and walleye. Maybe hunting moose or deer without a license. It’s the season. You haven’t found a rifle or rods or other equipment?”

Chernin shook her head. “But…” She looked at the thick forest and the lake.

It was, for the homicide detectives tasked with investigating murders outside of Québec cities, the perpetual problem. In a city, losing a body or a weapon might be a challenge.

Out here? You could lose a tank.

A loon gave another call, and over Beauvoir’s shoulder Gamache saw a formation of Canada geese heading south. Hurry, he thought. Winter’s closing in.

“I’d like a chart of the currents in this lake,” he said. “The local bureau de protection de l’environnement should have it. If not, try the Fish and Game Club.”

“Will do,” said Chernin. She waved toward the man and woman in the car. “If they were poachers, that might explain why they’re here, but it doesn’t make them murderers.”

“Unless they were her dealers,” said Beauvoir, pivoting. “Meeting out here where no one could see.”

“They’re from Montréal,” said Chernin. “Are you saying they came all the way up here to make a five-and-dime sale? Then killed her? Two days ago. Then returned to the body, and reported it?”

“They knew their DNA would be found,” said Beauvoir. The pivot had turned into a scramble. “This way they could explain it.”

They all looked over to the car, where the hikers were now leaning forward, aware they were being discussed.

Gamache shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?” asked Beauvoir, peeved at being doubted.

“For one, she wasn’t killed here.”

“How do you know?”

“You told me yourself. Think about it,” said Gamache, before turning back to Chernin. “Why not just leave her in the forest where she’d never have been found.”

Clotilde Arsenault would have then joined the long, and growing, list of missing women.

She was a known prostitute. A junkie. The local cops wouldn’t try too hard.

Her children would spend the rest of their lives wondering. Looking into the faces of pale women with blond stringy hair. In restaurants, shops, walking toward them on the street.

Even when they themselves were elderly, they would still be looking. Wondering if that young woman sitting over there could be their mother.

Could that possibly be the reason Clotilde had been left where she might be found? To spare her children?

Was a person capable of murder also, in that same moment, capable of kindness?

Gamache took a deep breath, his exhale coming out in a stream of vapor as the temperature dropped still further.

He turned toward his car.

“I’ll come with you,” said Chernin, knowing what he had to do now.

“No, you stay here and coordinate the scene of crime. I’ll meet you at the station after I’ve broken the news to the children.”

Though Armand Gamache knew it would be more than news he’d be breaking. Fortunately, he supposed, Captain Dagenais would have found someone to stay with Clotilde’s children for the past few days. Someone who could now comfort them.

Armand Gamache needed to get to them quickly before word leaked out, though news of a body was probably already spreading through the community.

He looked across the lake, past the relative protection of the cove, past the whitecaps roiling farther out, until his gaze stopped at the thick old-growth forest. It had seen its share of violent death.

Most wild animals did not die of old age. They were killed but not murdered. There was premeditation, yes. One animal stalking another, with intent to kill. But no mens rea. No malice aforethought. No evil intent.

He was reminded again what Abbie Hoffman had said: We must eat what we kill. That would put an end to war. And, thought Gamache, an end to murder. Or most.

Inspector Chernin accompanied him as he walked toward his car. Their heads together, they discussed the practicalities of the investigation, including where to set up a command center and where to stay.

“What do you think of him?” Gamache asked as they neared the vehicle.

“Beauvoir? Well, patron, you sure know how to find the biggest piece of shit around.”

“It’s a gift, and”—he stopped and smiled at her—“my track record is unbroken. He should fit right in.”

“You’re not—”

“I haven’t yet, but I’m considering it. There’s something about him.”

“It’s called insubordination. He hasn’t got a chip on his shoulder, he’s got a boulder. With those anger issues, he becomes unpredictable, and that could be dangerous.”

“His station chief agrees with you.”

“And yet—” said Chernin.

Gamache studied the woman who’d been his second-in-command for several years. He said nothing. Just watched her. Inviting her to consider.

This habit of his of just waiting, quietly, she’d found unnerving for the first few years of her posting in homicide. But now she was used to it. Kind of. Most senior officers could not wait to impose their ideas. Gamache insisted his agents think for themselves.

“And yet,” she continued, “he saw the shape of the wound and recognized the murder weapon. I saw it too. You saw it. But none of the other agents, not even the coroner, realized the significance and knew a brick had killed her. Knew it was murder.”

“He not just saw that, he spoke up. To a senior officer. He’s not afraid to speak his mind.”

“The trick is getting him to shut up.”

Gamache smiled. “True. That might take some work. But the point is, he put the truth ahead of his career.”

“The truth or his ego?” she asked. Linda Chernin too was not afraid to challenge her boss.

“Good question.” They looked over at Agent Beauvoir, who was pretending not to be watching them. “I guess we’ll find out. When you’re done here, have them taken to the station.” Gamache nodded toward the two hikers. “Let them stew for a while. There’s something, maybe quite a lot, they aren’t telling us. Have you applied for a warrant?”

“To search their vehicle? Yes. I’ve also applied for one for Madame Arsenault’s home. Both should come through soon. I’ll let you know.” She looked again at the hikers. “You think they did it?”

“I don’t know.”

Chernin returned to the shore and Gamache returned to his car. He could hear a vehicle approaching over the rutted road. No doubt the ambulance to take the body to the morgue and the news back to the community.

He’d have to hurry. And yet, his hand on the car door, the Chief Inspector hesitated. He stood very still and listened to the rustle and scramble of small creatures in the forest.

Then he closed his eyes, escaping into the peace of the moment. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the cool, fresh air and with it the scent of pine needles and musky earth and rotting leaves. It was somehow comforting. Familiar. Natural.

He paused. Paused. Even as the sound of the ambulance got louder and louder, Armand Gamache held on to the peace and quietude for as long as he could. Before …

But it had to be done.

Opening his eyes, Gamache caught sight of a chipmunk racing up a tree trunk. Was it running or fleeing? Hunter or prey? Was another death imminent?

What must it be like to run for your life through a forest, knowing your pursuer was getting closer, closer? It was the stuff of nightmares.

He looked away and saw Agent Beauvoir still watching him.

Making up his mind, Gamache called out, “Come with me, please.”

“Moi?” said Jean-Guy Beauvoir, touching his chest and looking around.

“Oui. Vous.”

The fact this superior officer had just used the formal, respectful “vous” surprised him.

“Well,” said Gamache, as Beauvoir got into the driver’s seat.

“Well, what?”

“Why is it clear Madame Arsenault wasn’t killed here?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

But Gamache just shook his head and looked out the window at the impenetrable forest, and Beauvoir settled into a silent huff. He was clearly being sent back to the basement.

He should have been so lucky.